Freedom
by Crosabre
Summary: What does Sui-Feng do with a captured Ggio Vega? All she can. [GgioSui/GgioSoi].
1. I: Betrayal

Sui-Feng draws the gateway's latch shut, preserving quarantine with her prisoner. Dispossessed of sympathy, the Hornet — every bit as hostile and serrated as her familiar's pernicious barb — captures sight of her victim.

The first Dragon of Baraggan Louisenbairn, Ggio Vega, is terribly worse for wear. He's incarcerated, hanging cruciform at the wrists by lattices of spiritual-dampening steel. The pallor of flesh conceived beneath an ageless moonlight, and only knowing two false suns, suffers beneath the oppression of illimitable, cross-hatched scars of vermillion.

They're all fresh wounds, which ebb unsightly Hollow blood across skin which is no less human than her own. Had it not been for the savage, sabre-toothed helm of bone and the scathing glower of effulgent, gold eyes mentally eviscerating the Commander-in-Chief of the Onmitsukidō from afar (his pathetic pride, she's amused to notice, is still intact) one might have been inclined to have questioned why exactly he's being kept so harshly.

"You look weak."

It's a fact, not her opinion, and it's said without a flinch.

He stirs against his restraints, eager to avenge the slight to his ego.

"I was beginning to think they'd never leave," Vega retorts, the thrill of the challenge lighting up the crooks of red-festooned lips. And then, with a bloodied wad of spit;

"Weak bastards. They suit you, though."

For some reason, had it been from anything with even the mildest sense of honour or decency, his grin might almost have been mistaken for gallant. _Charming_, even. But this is the ravenous, keen glimmer of a wild creature; Sui-Feng's sharp, and had he been any other she would not succumb to the imprisoned deviant's wiles. And yet, there's something engaging about his remorseless arrogance that inspires a dry, acidic smirk out of his captor. And just as swiftly, enflames the core of the assassin's cold heart.

"No," she admonishes, curt and clean.

_It's like quicksand. Easy to lure, easy to ensnare._

She's her own enemy.

_Sinking deeper, quicker._

"This does."

She kisses him deeply, passionately; like a woman addicted to his foul depravity, their lips unify in spiteful, blasphemous marriage. His taste is strangely paradoxical. At first, he swarms her with familiarity: of the copper pang of plasma shed by her hand so frequently, and how the bitter metal washes down like a homely remnant of who she should be. Then there's the rich, gritty taint of a world she's never known, and of a life she will never envisage. Their liaison together has lasted for as long as it's taken Sui-Feng to realise that a century of trauma, pressure, duty and impossible expectations have laid such crushing weight upon her that this release has always been inevitable.

She can still, even now, trace the memory of how even the sunlit phosphorescence of his unearthly eyes mirrored the freedoms she'd envied with so much guilt. The Captain personifies their sordid relationship in a single gesture: a lithe hand, as stained with metaphorical blood as his own, settles upon the Arrancar's blemished cheek. The cusps of arched fingers explore the flawless textures of his bruised flesh in weaving, practised torture, and they evince a low, bestial murmur of pained ire from the beast when they wander experimentally over the sensitive map of his wounds.

_To top it off, he feels the bitch smiling against him._

It's him. Always him. It's been him for the past two insufferable weeks. It's him who sets her heart askew, like the frantic wings of an injured butterfly. It's him to whom her licentious pleasures are owed. When she does this, she can spread aloft her own wings, she can dare to dream herself where she has never permitted herself to be. The ribs of her incarceration fragment into pieces, and when she pulls away from him, she opens her eyes to the darkness of the world as reality coldly devours her once more. She regains severity to her appearance, and her palm, which had nestled cunningly along the contours of his cheek, swipes into the contusion in an alarming _slap_ which shatters his own illusionary world in aching shards of awakening.

_The pieces of their two could-be worlds scatter at their feet._

_Finished. For now._

She has to forget how disgustingly perfect his flavour was, glazed upon her tongue. She has to forget the freedoms, the dreams, and the fantasy of what could have been.

_It always ends this way._

_It always has to._

Her skin burns with qualm, the contrite Captain withdrawing all emotion.

"You look weak," Ggio sneers, to the displeasured narrow of Sui-Feng's mercury gaze. Somewhere along the lines, she knew. She knew she looked weak. She knew she was weak. Weak enough to have capitulated to want and need. Weak enough to crave. She'd pushed herself tirelessly, and now those bleak nights had the company of regret. The Hornet considers bestowing her mark upon him a second time tonight, but relents in favour of grace and professionalism. She turns away, the aftermath viciously arctic.

"The next time I'm down here, you'll be gagged."

"Pleasure as always, _Captain_."

_He should never earn the last word._

_Yet he always does._


	2. II: Competition

Their affair, for lack of a better phrase, had begun as inexplicably as ever it still is today. His wild scent, his keen, aureate eyes more ornate than any jewellery she has ever seen, the candour of his antagonism, the addiction to their spars of tongue — in _every_ capacity, she'd forget to add, — and the fact that the perfidious bastard just wouldn't back down.

She'd broken the most resistant of minds, twisted bones and mangled muscle.

But not him, though. Not to her knowledge.

Sui-Feng is by no means a weak woman; to the contrary, she's one of the most fearsome, respected and astute figureheads of the Gotei Thirteen_. _Vega inwardly snorts with laughter when he overhears the trembled rumours of her underlings about how she's not from this world, how she's a hollow, robotic shell and how she's an orphan, forged from the will of the Seireitei itself to administer the most severe forms of justice for the most minor of wrongs. Her lack of tolerance for mistakes expands no further than the daggered tier of Suzumebachi itself; she's a strict Captain whose infallible authority is equalled only by her swift, merciless style of combat perfected to a crisp point.

Ggio Vega doesn't dispute that she's got something against the bitter life she's shouldering, nor can he confess to himself that she's as pitiful as her subordinates.

He laughs instead, because he — _their enemy_ — knows her better than they ever will.

It's been strange, but every time they've relapsed into that frenzied, fierce contest of lips in the lonely shadows of the Arrancar's cell, he's felt the heartbeat those superstitious cretins have denied. The Dragon of Baraggan Louisenbairn knows what it truly is to serve beneath an impregnable master who is not subject to the whims and emotions of a human heart. It is far distant to the maintenance of simple law and order, and the Sabre-Tooth can still recall the pulse of adrenaline coursing through his unevolved figure when the Skeleton Tyrant ordered the mass execution of helpless refugees.

Occasionally, after that massacre, Ggio lapped at his lower lip and still sampled the blood. It was a permanent film, lavished upon his skin like a biological scar. These past few weeks, however, the taste has mutated quite considerably. It's sweet at times, but his inhibited knowledge of ordinary human cuisine prevents him from identifying it as a faint trace of honey, interwoven by a visceral, womanly lust. All he knows is that it's her.

_Just to mentally spite his jailor, he licks again._

_And again._

_What she doesn't know won't hurt her._

On the next day, it's as if she knows. He has been awfully reckless, but not even her eagle eyes would have picked up on his misdemeanours. Maybe his cunning little vixen wants to cheat in this game of theirs, and leave him dry without refreshment. Instead of obliging the guards to leave them alone, she insists on leaving them present. Not that he would be particularly averse to an audience witnessing how _easily_ she bends around his finger.

"Still nothing, Captain Sui-Feng. He refuses to speak to anyone but you."

"He can't have much left to say then," she eyes him with a taunting shimmer to an otherwise plain, marble gaze. It's something only he would pick up on, he's sure of it, as the masked goons around her — either by polite virtue, ignorance or fear — remain placid.

"I wouldn't say it's _nothing_, Captain," Vega interrupts. His dastardly smirk is something that's consistently clean, she notes with unease; even among the curdled blood and palpitating, raw wells of fist-marks denting his irksomely handsome cheeks, his teeth are unfairly white, polished, and ludicrously conditioned. Well, with a master whose very soul personified arrogance, there's little wonder Baraggan's stooge has some vanity.

"No?" She scowls, only encouraging his shameless grin.

_She can't resist a challenge. Just like him. _

"And what, then, _would_ you call it?" Sui-Feng strafes around her inferiors towards the chained tiger, and though small her presence is overwhelming. In a way, she's like the first droplets before a vast storm. She keeps her head high enough to dispel the tumult gathering in her stomach, and her lethal stare carves an instruction into the Arrancar: to not so much as dare utter a syllable as to what unforgivable acts have occurred here. When she stops, she's but a handful of inches from his face — and it takes as much regulation as they can bear not to succumb there and then, their onlookers be damned.

"_Patience, _huh?" Ggio chews, taking her silent order as a contest. His cocky smirk is always there, always teasing her, always luring those childish notions of freedom out of her. "If you think you can win this with patience, you won't be having a good time."

Her brow quirks, unimpressed by the razor-thin ice he's placed them on.

"Meaning?"

"Well." He keeps his sentence unfinished for a few seconds, just enough time to grate upon the Captain's nerves while suppressing at least _some_ suspicions. "Let's just see how are you in a couple of hours, shall we?"

_Damn him._ Her fingers flex into provoked fists at her sides, and he relishes the tic of irritability that flickers just below her right eye. By now, her scowl is a parody of itself.

"You're right." For once, he's bewildered — but it doesn't last long, for the person she's speaking to isn't him. The assassin twists her attention around to the guard she conversed with, prior to this uncomfortable skirmish. "He's babbling nothing of worth."

His derisive effort to rally her is cut short, however, by the new stakes.

Sui-Feng visually skewers the Arrancar with a once-over, prying herself away from the dangers which await her had she lasted but a second's glimpse more.

"If he's not useful, I'll kill him tomorrow."

They salute, she leaves, and it's Ggio who now wrestles his sight away from her.


	3. III: Decision

Ggio Vega finds it almost a joke that she's kept him _abstinent_ for two days.

He never once believed her death threat, though maybe on some level he just refused to give it time of day enough to praise it with a margin of attention. When not only the remark failed to arrive, but she herself left him absent of her company for the day, that insufferable pride of his reacts to the offence as a wounded creature would. The irritable Arrancar's stubborn behaviour seeps into his frightening activities like blood into fabric, and the stains are just as tenacious.

It's made all the worse when he realises what she's doing, how she's coaxing out his feral, possessive nature, and how he lets it happen. Instead of unhelpful, goading comments of nothing in particular, he snaps venomously, with bestial impatience, towards his captors. He's a monster without its mate, language ill-composed and explicit, thoughtless, mindless; he doesn't have what he can get so easily, and blazing streams of verbal bile and intoxicated anger are the consequences.

He knows precisely the tune she's playing, but doesn't stop himself from falling into it. It's almost like he's punching himself in the face, but mutually, high above the underground labyrinth of the cells, it isn't easy for Captain Sui-Feng, either. It's only the possibility that he's taking this separation worse than her (which, all credit to her scheme, he truly is) which sustains her, and earns sly smirks from the Hornet when her imagination regales her with near-telepathic prediction as to his circumstance. Paperwork and consistent duties help relieve her from the withdrawal, but yearning for the tastes of freedom isn't something she hoped would chain her down so cruelly. She'd be no better than the Eleventh's louts, or that despicable shopkeeper, if she surrendered to those baser, carnal raptures which sing so sweetly in her ears.

She finds it all rather ridiculous, after the tension dissipates into rationality. He's an Arrancar, and she's a Shinigami. Not even that divide's unpleasant chasm is wide enough — she is a Captain, and his marks upon her wouldn't even last. Without the past few weeks sapping his life force away, piece by torturous piece, he may have had the capacity to butcher her Division without breaking a sweat. He'd blow holes in most, she'd wager, spare for the elites: a few lieutenants, here and there, of the Seireitei's military wings. Even with such accolades behind him, he falls to her without fail. There's absolutely no question of her superiority, yet the leashes of titles and rank are precisely that which bound her to the freedoms etched upon his tongue in the first place.

She purses her lips, dries the ink upon her parchment, and pinches out the candle.

_Distance offers her such clarity, as she struggles through withdrawal._

_It's a shame that by dawn the next day, she'd already be betraying that._

When the assassin drapes herself restlessly atop her futon bedding, she refreshes her comfort in the word 'distance'. It's _distance_ which has kept her alive throughout the past century. It's _distance_ which has provided her with personal indifference towards the plights of her subordinates and peers, expending any potential energy in forging friendships or maintaining relationships into sharpening her blades. It's _distance_ which has blurred out what it's like to laugh and smile, unburdened and genuine, which the harmed, obstinate side of her personality still accredits to her exiled mentor. It's _distance_ which has sculpted her into what she is today, and she'll be damned if she permits some torrid intrigue to mar her progress towards isolation any further. The conflicted Sui-Feng slinks onto her side, dejected and sleepless, gripping fearsomely onto her spare pillow.

_She'd never wanted attachment. She'd never wanted to care._

She curses and damns something so weak, which provokes something so powerful.

The following day, alone, Sui-Feng treads into the tiger's den. The atmosphere is spiced with hatred and desire, as though it's the aftermath of a terrible spate of rage. It's enough to tickle beneath her skin, managing to so early lodge his presence beneath there.

"Miss me already, Captain?"

His haggard tone doesn't escape her notice. Ggio's more of a Hollow than he ever has been, appearing to have regressed considerably back to those primordial roots which bleed cannibalism, crime, vindictiveness, sadism and arrogance. Among many other things, of course, like an unbridled, insatiable hunger for all things tangible. His brows are knotted viciously, and gilded eyes muddled by contempt lance straight through her. Even his smile, which had once been so deplorably perfect, is barbarous and crooked.

"Quite the opposite," she lies, the evenness of her countenance an illusion too.

The Hornet coils her hands around the low-hanging hilt of her Zanpakutō, baring the first glistening corridor of steel. In the murky environment, there's not even a glimmer.

"I came here to kill you."


	4. IV: Defeat

"What?" All of the brightness contained within Ggio's lustrous eyes darkens, and he narrows a feline glare towards her which robes itself with disdain and rancour. He manages a double-take of Sui-Feng's nonchalance, and for a moment disregards it as a jest and nothing more. "That's it, then?" A _Dragon_, he presumes, ought more grandeur in its demise than a knife in the dark. His portrait of a gnarled, besmirched humour isn't as deceptive as the eerie flatness of her own. "I didn't take you for much of a joker."

_Oh, if only he could know how deeply his claws are embedded in her._

With mournful expertise, the tempered length of Suzumebachi sups its fill of the dank cloister's air; suffice to say it's clammy, uncomfortable and sodden with an earthen scent. She ventures upon the Arrancar's figure, feigning with all her might a veneer of impassive judgment, and embraces the rear of her foe's slipshod, tousled black mane.

"So don't."

She slips the fang of her sword into his stomach, the perforation clean and prompt. She senses the enfeebled body of her victim bristle and stiffen in immediate response, the overlapping extremes of her weapon's wintry chill soon replaced by the warmth of blood — his own, precious blood — sluicing in viscous pulses onto the blade's guard, onto her strangely steady hand, and puddling messily onto the ground at their feet. The colour of his irises resurrects briefly, before dimming, initiating his battle with death. She's witnessed this sort of farewell for over a hundred years, and has the premonition enough to expectantly trace her hand away from the curve of his scalp to swab away the choked rivulet of deep maroon fluid gathering at the corner of her worse half's lips. Unlike her many, many targets before, the assassin knows how these taste. She can remember it vividly enough that he's there when she sweeps her spiteful organ across her mouth.

She studies the creases that the suddenness of her act, the sense of treachery, which exhibits itself across the stunned Arrancar's wounded face. It's as if she can see the cells of his being combatting one another, illustrating their own tale of struggle and strife, as unconsciousness weaves in and out of his conflict. His species are not so effortless trophies as this; had he the strength he had but a fortnight ago, his laughter would be blessing her ears with its wicked anthem.

"You— bitch…!" Ggio growls, scathing in his frailty. He's a Hollow, born in Hueco Mundo, living by its code of life and understanding the survival of the fittest even better than a veteran of mortality such as her. It's not the hole in his torso which loosens his profanity, but the hole in that scuppered pride of his. With that evident to her, Sui-Feng retreats the sword from his gut in a second, sanguine tide.

_Her aim is true, even now_. _When it has to be._

Vega, cursing in a conflagration of obscenities, remains unabated. She's selfish, and with the smile wiped from him in a single thrust of metal, relishes where she now stands.

On the higher ground.

"You… Don't you fuck with me! Undo these chains, you bitch! Undo them, and let's see how far you can get! I'll kill you myself; I swear it, I'll kill you with my own hands…!"

With her newfound urge sated, Sui-Feng's lips tilt into a corrupting, guileful simper.

"I specialise in stabbing backs," she reminded the incandescent Arrancar, doing little to quash his livid temper. Drawing her features scarcely an inch away from the baited, captured and thoroughly defeated other — where their breaths mingled and kissed in a haze of fire and ice — she administers the coup de grâce. "I wouldn't have expected anything else from the Commander-in-Chief of the Onmitsukidō, if_ I_ were you."

Of course, the creed of that very institution is one she wholeheartedly pledges herself to. However, there are such circumstances where Sui-Feng is corrupted by her self-esteem, more so than she cares to admit. She's still relatively young, despite the unhealthy abundance of experience she's garnered under her belt; to mature quicker than her age would dignify her with, cornered in a world of nothing but boundaries and iron, has left her with this very quandary she stands in at the moment. Not a single instance of catering to her ego leaves her content or forgiven, yet it's a pitfall she's still learning to climb away from. More than eager to further shatter the Arrancar's spirit, the Captain flickers her attention briefly towards the impervious padlock of the chains.

"Couldn't win any other way, huh?" Ggio taunts, an embittered and odious temperament lingering upon a forced leer. His breaths are static and uncontrolled, and had she the merciful mentality of a healer, or the esteemed virtue of a combatant, then she might have brought levity to his qualms by relenting. But she is an assassin, whose high ground — unbeknownst to her — infects her with the Dragon's contagious attitude.

"_Win_?" She angles her head, brow furrowed in facetious thought. "I did that two weeks ago." It's an off-the-cuff remark, uttered as tonelessly like a medical evaluation. It's that which causes Vega to pull against his tethers, the intersections of tailored alloy sounding heavier than she cares to remember. Sui-Feng's hand inquisitively searches southward, running down the pulse of his jugular onto the interlaced fabric just below the Sabre Tooth's collarbone. Fluently, she slackens the material with the pad of her thumb and purposefully slithers that sole digit along the contour of his left pectoral. She's very interested to discover the hints of broken bone are misted over by regenerated flesh.

She's also more interested to discover that, despite it all, the infernal Arrancar has a heart. Her fingers linger over the centre of his chest, absorbing every palpitation as if each is a message coded only for her. It's disgusting, really, but oddly alluring.

"Or don't you _remember_?"

What he would do to sink his teeth into this irresistibly vexatious woman. When he summons enough energy to lock eyes with her, the time is spent channelling every iota of it into a hateful spark, fuelling the dance of flames mutually kindled within them. It takes every ounce of his being — as well as reinforced, spirit-sucking chains and a vicious stab wound to the stomach — to prevent him from making the damn thorn in his side his, there and then, on the tenebrous floor. If it had been his way, her assassination garments would have been a camouflaged frenzy of shred memories on the ground.

But he restrains it all, what muscles left to function seizing up and falling flat.

He looks at her with all the hatred of the world multiplied by all the lusts of it.


	5. V: Release

Hollows thirst after power. Their fickle loyalties lie with the highest bidder. Whoever has the most influence reigns, and whoever shirks this law of life ends up as the crushed bedrock of the kingdoms that rise and fall into the endless seas of dust. Ggio Vega recalls well how beneath the skeletal hand of His Majesty, Baraggan Louisenbairn, every opportunity resonated with triumph. Every quarter of their sordid world was his. Now, beaten, drained, mottled by lacerations, and fatigued of will, it seems that every quarter of the Arrancar's world now belongs to the Hornet, Sui-Feng — no matter his argument.

And it's true, quite honestly, that the repugnant creature swallowed within the crest of Tigre Estoque craves that which emanates from the slender, bewitching Captain.

Power is something to be attained, worshipped, respected, and manipulated. Within the frost-speared, smoky windows to the Shinigami's soul is a sweltering hearth of power, one so enslaving, and one so absolute, that his earlier preconceptions of her weaknesses are buried to rest eternally. He bites his tongue for such negligence, as it was once inscribed upon his very soul that nothing lasts forever. But that time is now over, too. In her there is illimitable profit to be had; in mind, and body, he does so savour the chase.

Well, watching her squirm is quite fun, after all.

And yet, as dominant as he enjoys imagining himself to be, the scene is no different. The essence of his vital organs smears her blade in a claret envelope, pitching its already dulled complexion a midnight obscurity. Occasionally, she'll angle it so that the minute reflections upon the shimmering fluid appear as starlight, speckled along the surface. A primal desire overcomes Ggio, whose insistent resurgence against the manacles he's enclosed within amuses his keeper like an animal performing tricks. Blow after blow, he suffers the ignominy of a fracturing pride which lessens his worth beyond measure.

_A disgrace to his name, his origin, his species and himself._

"You call that winning?" His lungs betray him too, offering up another hiccup of blood. "_Bullshit_. You don't win 'til I'm dead," he's gravelly, husky, from the aftermath of a much-needed stabbing. "And I don't think you can, after that little act."

She adheres to distance, that one element which has saved her so often.

Her grip upon it slips, however, with every fresh word this scoundrel drives into her. He's enchanting in his own way; he's dirty, savage, his views on the world are positively prehistoric, and yet she can't help but join him in his sardonic sport. It's enlivening, about as useful and good for her as laying upon a bed of electricity — and just as exhilarating. Just from his words, she's hypnotised into this game of theirs again.

"I could," Sui-Feng counters, wiping one side of her precious Suzumebachi along the slope of his throat. It's mesmerising how the liquid funnels down the definitions of his musculature, creating a veritable geography of bloodied rivers and islands of cleaner skin. She's quick to realise just how repulsive it is that she's admiring such handiwork, and expeditiously finds shelter within the distance of an illusionary smile. "But I've enjoyed watching you _break_ over these past few days. You were so obnoxious just a week ago, now you can barely make out a sentence before you're spitting blood. I'm tempted to see how much longer before you beg for me to actually _do_ it, Arrancar."

He's looking exhausted. The wound's taken its toll.

"Keep awake," she whispers egregiously, cupping his cheek.

"_Untie_ me," he orders plainly, the reveal of his gritted fangs touching her heart.

"No," she replies, just as bluntly. "You think I'd open the doors to the Seireitei for an Arrancar to roam free? You've nowhere to go but here."

"As touching as your suicide watch is, _Captain_, it's not the Seireitei I'm after."

Now _that_ ensnares her. A curious arch of her brow indicates she's listening, nothing more. Nothing expressly mentioned. Nothing to insinuate that her plan of distance is rapidly spinning out of her hands and becoming quite the opposite. It's the sort of candid expression that she's used to receiving from him, and her lips straighten to neutralise any sort of footing he has over her. It's a failed effort though, and he rides on the tailwind of her very clear attachment towards her prisoner — a feral urge feeding him the instinctual awareness that the Captain of the Second Division isn't able to much longer quell a certain, natural, need flourishing between her thighs.

His mouth opens to assail her with the spellbinding toxic of his words, but she severs that ancient, holy convention of hers — _distance_ — and carelessly casts it to the wind. She thieves his breath away with an alarming kiss, the silk of tender lips only he has ever tainted forcefully melding with the rough vulgarity of his own. Dry, chiselled and starved confronts and contrasts surprisingly soft, glistening velvet in a prurient explosion of flagrant sexual energy. Ggio's impishness doesn't diminish with his desire, and this time it's his smile which entices the coils of desire inside Sui-Feng's body to simultaneously unleash themselves in strength-robbing ripples of raw passion.

When they finally pull away, they're a panting, breathless mess of unfulfilled tension.

"And I thought this was a falling out, Captain."

She hates that. She hates him, and his silver-struck words. She hates how he takes a figurative hatchet to all she's built of herself over these past ten decades, and so effortlessly reaches into the crevices of her emotional trove before picking out the flavour he's in the mood for. She's not some gourmet to be laid before him, but she'd be downright lying if she refuted that she's going to ignore the inevitable path they're on.

"I'm not your _Captain_," Sui-Feng hisses in acrimony, treading a few feet away from the fettered Arrancar. Her immaculate Captain's haori descends upon the floor in a dishevelled pyramid of white cloth, leaving her slimmed physique enrobed within the liberating confines of her assassination garbs.

"Not now. Not tonight."

The killer's fingers ease themselves beneath the left shoulder of her raiment, spilling the strap messily like a bangle around her upper arm. The bare, tan flesh beneath becomes mirrored upon her right, as she undresses with tantalising languish before her prey.

"Not ever, will I be your _Captain_."

She disrobes fully, her bare figure stepping out of the pooled ensemble.

And for once, the detestable Arrancar is stripped from his clever tongue and left just as stark as her.

* * *

**[**Sabre**]**: Thank you for reading this far! GgioSui is a guilty pleasure of mine (and apparently theirs, too), so it was a lot of fun to start this! I'll be adding onto the story in due time, but I would welcome any feedback you might have of it up to now. Bye for now!


End file.
